Dance with Me, My Lovely

by Jaye Roycraft

  Move? She couldn't think, she could barely breathe, and she seriously doubted her feet were functional for anything more than keeping her upright. He scarcely moved, though, and simply rocked her in time to the music. His body no longer appeared to steam, but she could feel him simmering. Hard muscles flexed under her touch, as if his energy longed for an outlet, and the beat of his heart bridged the gap between them, seeming to pound against her own chest. Rage at the world? Desire for her? Or just the hunger of the vampire? She didn't know.

  He teased the hair at her temple with his lips. “I live in a prison cell, Cate. A very beautiful cell called the night, with bars called sunrise and sunset. Within that cell my existence is limited even more by what I am. Dancing gives me freedom and a way to interact with mortals. Can you understand that?"

  She tilted her head away from him. “Interact? You mean victimize, don't you?"

  He caught her gaze. “I don't kill. I do what I have to do in order to survive, just as every other creature on this planet does. Is that evil? Do you have any idea what it's like to be truly apart from everyone else you meet?"

  Loneliness. She understood only too well. Her only intimate relationship had been the one-night stand with Bret in college. She'd thought him to be sweet and charming, and at the time she'd thought the sex with Bret had been something extra-special. When she'd found out later that she'd been just one meal in a sex addict's life, the blow had affected her confidence for years. Since then men had either ignored her or shied away from her once they found out what she did for a living. She nodded, and Garran pulled her closer, bringing her body flush against his.

  His hands dropped from the center of her back until his flattened palms reached her bottom. All feeling left her legs and amassed in a spot low in her body. She was afraid that if he released her now, she'd be dancing with the floor.

  His hands slid over her bottom, feather light at first, then with increasing pressure, until the length of her body was pressed intimately against his. They danced like that, his hands holding her against his erection, and all she was conscious of was the reaction of their bodies to each other. Pressure throbbed deep inside her, slowly, then grew to a rhythm matching the music and the movement of their bodies.

  "Love me, Garran,” she whispered, her lips inches from his. She couldn't see his mouth without looking cross-eyed, but in her mind's eye she saw the full lips, with the upper lip that sloped down on either side before tilting back up at the corners. She waited for his answer, then stood on tiptoe to kiss him, but he pulled away before she could reach his mouth. The bold move had been hard for her, but his rejection was harder still.

  "No,” he growled, his voice hoarse.

  "Listen to me. I didn't answer your question, but, yes, I do know what it's like to be truly apart from everyone I meet. I see and hear what others can't. I can travel to places other people can't even dream of. You think that makes me wanted?"

  He bared his fangs. “You forget what I am. I don't know if I can control the beast. It's too big a risk."

  The sight made her sweat, whether from fear or excitement she didn't know. “It's what you are. If I can't handle it, we have no future. We need to find out."

  He looked at the walls and sucked in air past his fangs, almost making a whistling sound. His head moved slightly, a tiny nod to the walls, as if he'd made a decision. “Not here,” he said.

  He led her across the hall to a grand office with dance-inspired artwork lining the walls. The art depicted men bent over their partners in a variety of positions that had Cate wondering if all professional dancers were contortionists.

  Garran smiled. “Amazing, aren't they? Only the sex act offers more creative positions."

  Cate's heart sank. The artwork reminded her of all the things she wasn't—limber, graceful, confident, and skilled. The dancers in the paintings were amazing. But if Garran truly admired women like that, he was sure to be disappointed in her. She knew she wasn't bad looking. She just doubted she could be the kind of partner who could be a true match for Garran's lust and experience. A movie poster occupied one wall by itself. She took a closer look. It was for The Sheik.

  "Rudolph Valentino?"

  He nodded.

  It was only then that Cate noticed the day bed in the corner. She was about to ask him why there was a bed in the office, but he gave her no opportunity to speak, grabbing her under her armpits, twirling her about him in a circle, and covering her mouth in the kiss she'd been waiting for. She wrapped her arms around his neck and hung on. Centrifugal force pulled her away from him, but somehow her mouth had no problem staying locked on his. His lips were cool and soft and moved with the same slow-motion seduction as his body did when he danced. He moved slowly, but she felt like she was flying, and for the first time her graceless feet didn't matter. Just like in the big dream.

  She'd always wanted to feel as free in her body as she did in her mind, and in that moment she did. Just as she was getting dizzy he landed her on the bed so that she bounced on the mattress with her knees tucked under her. Her arms were still locked behind his head, though, and she brought Garran down on top of her. She laughed, and the laughter felt good, almost as good as flying, but neither felt as good as his kiss. She'd seen so many bits and pieces of him—the sex machine at the Pony Express, the corpse-spirit in the Lower World, the in-control dance master, and the man in her office in need of healing—but kissing him was like touching all those different sides. Soft and hard. Wild and controlled. Powerful and vulnerable.

  She reached for him, but his hands were quicker, seizing the hem of her pullover sweater and peeling it up and over her head. He rid her of her skirt and stockings with the ease and expertise of a man who strips for a living, leaving her with just panties and a white camisole.

  There were no windows in the office, but along with the wall of photos and art was a wall of mirrors behind the bed. She looked at the mirror and saw the two of them, and then it dawned on her. “I thought vampires didn't have reflections."

  He smiled, showing the white tips of his fangs. “We're vain creatures. We love our mirrors. You can thank Bram Stoker for the misconception.” He ran his tongue along the edge of his teeth. “Do you like what you see?"

  She nodded and grinned, staring at his reflection. Silly question. He was gorgeous. He wasn't all pumped up, like some athlete on steroids, but like Michaelangelo's David, quiet and subtle perfection.

  In the reflection, she saw him drop his smile enough to cover his fangs. “Yourself included?” he asked.

  She hadn't looked at herself, and she quickly realized she'd always thought of herself as invisible. She shifted her glance and was surprised to see a woman who glowed with passion. Was that her? The half-dressed woman with the wide eyes and tousled hair was beautiful. “Yeah. Myself included."

  "Good. Then perhaps you're ready to stop being just an admirer in the crowd."

  That brought her gaze back to his face. Yes. She wanted to be a participant, not just a spectator. She wanted to do, not just dream. She yearned to explore the body that had loved her so passionately. No, she amended. I don't just yearn. I burn. She reached one hand to his chest.

  His pectoral muscles were hard and smooth, his nipples tight. He grasped her wrist and pulled her hand downward, dragging her fingers from his sternum to the valley between his six pack to below his navel. His chest was hairless, and there was no line of hair below his navel, a result, she supposed, of the grooming necessary for his exotic dancing. He guided her hand lower still, and she reached for his penis through the material of his trousers. It hardened under her touch and seemed to move into her grasp, straining the cloth until the material was stretched tight.

  He closed his eyes and groaned, and, emboldened, she leaned forward to kiss him on the mouth, wanting to swallow his moan and feel it inside her. The sound vibrated all the way down to her toes, and she shuddered with the longing behind it. She understood longing. It was something they shared, and for the first time,
she felt connected to him—not bound or shackled—but joined with, just as he'd promised. She opened her mouth wider and slid her tongue forward, running it over the points of his fangs. They were sharp, like an animal's canine teeth, but strangely, she felt no fear. Garran slipped his arms around her and pulled her to him. Despite his trousers, she felt the head of his penis grind against her mound, and when he broke the kiss, she realized his body was shaking as much as hers was.

  "Take them off,” she ordered, and her voice sounded as gravelly to her ears as his had earlier.

  He stood and wriggled out of his pants so effortlessly it was like a snake shedding its skin.

  He was magnificent. His erection stood at a ninety degree angle from his body, thick and long and hard, and the memory of how he'd felt inside her the other times made her want him all the more now. When he tugged her to his feet, pulled her camisole over her head and rolled her panties down and off her legs, she looked again at her reflection. The stranger stared back at her, and as she ran her hands over her breasts, a thrill ran through her. She didn't just look beautiful, she looked sexy. She dropped her hands, no longer wanting to hide her tight little breasts or hard nipples. Her skin looked like it was bathed in the light of the setting sun, all warm and burnished, and her nipples and areolas were a smoky rose. She felt no embarrassment, but a true longing so deep it hurt as much as her throbbing body did.

  "You're lovely,” he whispered. “As breathtaking as you are in the spirit world. Your hair is true red in the spirit world. Did you know that? But of course you do."

  But of course you do. He saw her so clearly he was assuming she'd always seen herself in the same light. She'd been only vaguely aware that in the spirit world her hair did appear longer and brighter in color, but the certainty in his words made her feel as stunning as his description.

  He grabbed both her hands in his and spun her around again, landing her on the bed. He stretched out and pulled her on top of him. She straddled him, feeling his penis against her buttocks, and as she leaned forward he guided one breast to his mouth. His tongue wet her nipple, and she felt it tighten in response. His lips pressed against her, and she felt him trap the nipple between his tongue and the tip of one fang. He varied the pressure, increasing it until she thought the fang would pierce her skin. His breathing came harder and faster, sending shivers along her skin, and the sounds from deep in his throat were more animal than human, but he released her with a nip instead of a bite. She cried out with the pleasure of the pain and arched her back as far as she could.

  "Do you want more?” he breathed.

  She knew she should say no. He was right—it was dangerous. He was on the edge, and even as inexperienced as she was, she knew it. But the craving for more overcame everything else. She nodded.

  He nipped her again and again, each time harder than the last. Finally, so aroused she thought she would explode, she pushed herself off him and fell to her back.

  Garran laughed, an acknowledgment that she was not the only one riding the edge of control. He breathed deeply, propped himself up on an elbow, and ran his other hand across her belly. “Relax. Let your body move.” His hand spanned her from the bottom of her ribcage to her navel, and as she slowed her breathing, she was aware of every inch of flesh beneath his fingers.

  He reached for her hand and guided it to his hip. “Feel my body. Listen to the music. It's in me. And in you."

  She stretched her body, forcing it to relax, then arched again and thrust her breasts at him. He bent forward and he drew one nipple so far into his mouth she thought he'd swallow her whole. He suckled her, and her nipples ached so much she couldn't tell if he'd bitten her in earnest or not, but she didn't care. She heard the strains of Nocturne in her head—the slow, smooth one-two-three rhythm—and she felt Garran's body move beside hers, as if he could hear the same music.

  When he straddled her, she no longer needed to worry about what to do with her body, because it took on a life of its own. Without thought, her legs coiled and tightened around Garran's waist like a cinch. He kissed her mouth again, harder this time. When he broke the kiss to drag his lips down her neck, she felt his ragged breath, and all she knew was his necessity, his hunger, the anguish that sought release.

  "Relax your hold, love. Relax..."

  She did, releasing her leg-lock, but she wondered if he didn't need the advice more than she did. His hair hung forward, and his eyes glowed like those of a nocturnal beast. They burned through the shadow created by the curtain of his hair, as piercing as she supposed his fangs were, and as penetrating as she knew his penis was.

  She jerked when his fingers touched the liquid between her legs, and when his hand probed deeper into her folds, she pushed against him, moving her legs to open herself more to him. The smooth rhythm of the waltz was replaced in her head by more primitive music, raw and throbbing. Garran's fingers found her clit and rubbed it, lightly at first, then harder. She sucked on her lower lip and rocked her hips, but the movement only increased the tension in her body. Her muscles alternately contracted and relaxed of their own accord, but there was nothing to contract around. Not yet.

  "Garran..."

  "What, love?"

  "Please..."

  "Please, what?"

  "Please now."

  With his free hand he grasped hers and guided it to his penis. She stroked its shaft, wondering how something could be so soft and hard at the same time. It was as cool and silky as polished marble, but she wanted no cold statue. And as perfect as Garran looked, perfection wasn't what she wanted. She wanted him and all the ragged edges beneath the smooth exterior.

  Before she could make another plea, he drove into her. She tightened, squeezing him like a dozen fists pumped in victory in unison, and he groaned. He pulled out, then thrust again, harder. Her muscles relented, and by the third thrust he was so deep inside her that she could feel the head of his penis pressing against her womb. He pushed into her, again and again, each driving thrust harder and deeper than the one before, filling her even when she thought she couldn't take any more of him in. He accelerated his strokes to a rhythm that took her to a place beyond thought, beyond reality, to a place where, as in the spirit world, everything was wilder, more vivid, and more perfect than life. Where anything and everything was possible, and where every wish was answered. Pain became pleasure, hunger became passion, and finally, when she could take no more, she came. Liquid gushed from between her legs, and she felt his climax follow immediately.

  He was quiet, and as their bodies stilled and their breathing returned to normal, she saw him above her, his broad chest and muscular arms gleaming with sweat.

  She blinked and gazed around the room, and the nubile dancers in the photos all seemed to be bowing to her, welcoming her back to reality. Moments of movement and ecstasy, frozen in time. Was this man her reality, or just a moment in time, like the photos?

  She turned her head and looked at Garran. His eyes were closed, and for all his liveliness of a few moments ago, he was as still as the dead. “Don't fall asleep on me."

  He raised his lids halfway, and the hooded eyes gave him a lazy, sated look. “Don't worry. I don't sleep at night."

  Another welcome to reality. “Of course. Then don't let me doze off. So what's next for us?"

  He rolled to one side, leaned over her, and pressed a kiss between her breasts. His hair fell forward to tease her reddened nipples, sending shivers down her body as if she wasn't already as satisfied as he was. His blue-black eyes gleamed, and the corners of his mouth lifted mischievously, one at a time. He bent his head again and kissed one erect nipple, sucking gently, then tugged it with his teeth.

  She wriggled her legs with the growing ache and ran the toes of one foot along his calf. “And just what do you think you're doing?"

  He smiled. “Keeping you awake, of course."

  * * * *

  Garran knew it wasn't over. He still wasn't whole, and he still didn't know if Geneva was right about Cate's being
strong enough to handle the vampire.

  History was not on his side.

  Chapter Sixteen

  1929

  Chicago, Illinois

  Geneva was gone.

  He hadn't found her that night, or the night after. He'd written poetry, including My Lovely, and had mailed it to her house. He never got a response, though the mail had never been returned. He'd called on the phone and had left messages with Harry. He'd wandered every speakeasy, dance hall, and opium den in Uptown, but he'd never found her. He'd widened his search to other Chicago neighborhoods, but the result had been the same.

  He returned to El Jardín night after night, though he had no realistic expectation of finding Neva there. Logic told him it was the last place she'd return to, but something kept pulling him back. Maybe it was simply because it was the one place he'd been lucky before. There was a romance attached to El Jardín that even as one of the undead he was not immune to. Maybe he believed that lightning could strike twice in the same place. Or maybe he believed that Neva, knowing it was the last place he'd expect to find her, would come for that reason alone. Leave it to her to want to avoid him by hiding in plain sight.

  But he never saw her there. Maybe mutual acquaintances, like Harry, had seen him there regularly and had warned Neva off. Perhaps she herself had been there and spotted him before he caught wind of her scent. It was a remote possibility, but the thought of just missing her by either scant minutes or scant yards ate at him.

  When he wasn't working or searching the clubs and gin joints, he walked the streets. It became his habit to study the face of each passing female. Some smiled at his boldness, and others quickened their pace, as if they were afraid he'd pursue them, but most ignored him.

  Often he did pursue the ones who smiled, but they were quick indulgences, usually in the back seat of an auto or in a dark alley. The hurried blood and sex dulled his hunger, but nothing relieved the emptiness that gnawed at him.